Chapter Three: Entering the Wild Burial Mounds

Changzhou was a small city in the north; further north lay the desolate land of mountains and dark waters, stretching across a hundred thousand peaks. Wild beasts and poisonous insects roamed those lands, venomous marshes and miasma shrouded the valleys, not a single bird fell, not a blade of grass grew—it was a place of evil and terror. Legends told of an ancient demon, a monstrous fiend imprisoned amid those ranges; the remnants of the Hu barbarians, chased away decades ago by the Great General of Cavalry, Champion Marquis Zhou Guang, had vanished into the wilderness, never to be seen again. When the army retreated, the region, once thriving on the supply of provisions and military needs, fell into bleak stagnation, barely clinging to a semblance of life.

Within those hundred thousand mountains stood a particularly imposing peak, rising a thousand fathoms high, its slopes perilous, peaks and ridges askew, cliffs sheer and jagged. Midway up, it appeared as if a celestial giant had cleaved a gaping maw with an axe—a cavernous opening, a hundred feet wide, dark and foreboding, from which black winds and foul miasma perpetually arose. Stranger still, the entire mountain range was barren, with only unnamed ferocious beasts prowling its heights—some ten feet tall, others bearing multiple heads and tails, dragon heads and serpent bodies, bloodshot eyes and fangs, some stretching thirty feet long. The five-colored miasma, common throughout the mountains, was especially thick before this peak, as if some formation was faintly woven.

A streak of black light flew toward the mountain, hesitated, then plunged into the cavernous opening. But midway, the five-colored miasma billowed forth; the rider of the black light was suddenly overwhelmed by a strange fragrance, their limbs weakened, their spiritual energy in turmoil. Glancing about, they found themselves enveloped in a white mist; a blink of the eye revealed golden flowers raining from the sky, golden lotuses sprouting from the earth, ethereal music and sacred chants echoing, immortal vapors drifting, their body suffused with a sense of ascending to immortality. Another blink, and they plummeted into the eighteen hells; ghostly flames flickered, deathly aura thickened, a darkness unspeakable. Thousands of boiling cauldrons the size of men bubbled with yellow oil, countless imps wielding iron forks chained gaunt, yellow-faced prisoners and threw them into the pots, crying as they did, "You who violated the precepts of anger and lust in the mortal world, now suffer the punishment of the oil cauldron! Down you go! When your skin is yellow and your body crisp, you must descend to the next level!" Screams and howls filled the air as bodies blackened, bones turned golden; suddenly, two imps seized the person, cackled, "Another fish in the net," and hurled them into the cauldron. All magical powers failed; one agonized scream jolted the person awake—yet still surrounded by white mist, cold sweat soaking their back. With every blink, they experienced anew: ascending immortality, boundless freedom; descending to hell, tormented by flying blades, fiery arrows, mountains squeezing.

Unable to withstand it, the person felt their century-old spiritual resolve fracturing, cried out in anguish, and fell to the ground, revealing a young man with a sullen visage. He knew the old demon was manipulating the formation; his own fate depended on the demon’s whim. Desperately, he kowtowed toward the dark opening in the mountain, lamenting, "Ancestor Qinglian, spare me! Spare me! I, Zhou Chong, come on the orders of my master, the Dragon Slayer, to report urgent news!"

The illusion vanished at once; the mountain was as before, the mist unchanged. From the depths of the cave, a sinister, mournful voice echoed, "Why does your old ghost not remain in the southern frontier preaching, but sends you here? If your words displease me, I may just feast on your heart and liver."

He quickly replied, "I dare not conceal from you, revered one. In the Central Holy Sect, Master Ma Luo is refining the Supreme Yin Soul Formation—when complete in three years, it will rival the Hunyuan Yin-Yang Formation of the Emei Sword Sect. News of this reached the righteous factions, who rushed to stop it. None expected the formation's power; unable to break it, several were lost. The righteous crowd, lacking a method to break the formation, was helpless, until Taiyi of the Heaven and Earth Cave sent word: the Supreme Yin Soul Formation is broken only by nine individuals born at precisely noon on the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the year of Bingchen. Taiyi further explained that in Bingchen year, the sun’s essence is at its peak, the earth’s dragon veins rise, merging with solar energy—a convergence of yang. At noon on the fifteenth day, this yang is at its zenith, a golden crow apparition appears; children born at this moment are imbued with solar essence—true yang bodies, perfectly suited to break the Supreme Yin Formation. Our spies uncovered this, and to capture the holders of true yang, we have battled the righteous factions multiple times. Granny Ghost calculated that a true yang body has just been born in your northern domain; we hope you will emerge, seize this person, and annihilate the invaders. Elder Chang Mingzi says if you assist, he will lend you the Sacred Teachings’ treasure, the ‘Book of the Pagoda,’ for your perusal."

Ancestor Qinglian was silent for a moment, then chuckled, "Since you’ve come, your Poison Monk must be involved too. Ha! Fifty years ago, did he forget the fate of Ancestor Five-Heart? Go tell Chang Mingzi, I know the matter; let him deal with it as he sees fit."

Zhou Chong was puzzled, knowing this old demon’s moods were unpredictable and fond of eating hearts and livers, but dared not question further. He bowed, "Understood," stamped his foot, and vanished in a streak of black light.

After Zhou Chong left, Ancestor Qinglian summoned a disciple—a towering figure nearly nine feet tall, blue-faced and tusked, muscles tinged violet, veiled in dark aura. This was Zombie Daoist Lu Lingzi, the fourth disciple of Qinglian. The ancestor instructed, "Since the great battle between good and evil fifty years ago, our kind hasn’t emerged. That little demon Ma Luo dares to raise his head; the Central Sect must be gathering allies, and the seven major factions won’t sit idle either. I inherited the southern holy tradition, so I can’t shirk my duty, but I’d rather not give my all and end up like Five-Heart. Go seek the true yang body—do your part, but not too much. You are the most cunning among my disciples; remember, don’t let yourself be sold without knowing it…" Their scheming need not be detailed.

Meanwhile, the three Zhou brothers headed west to the city’s burial ground to meet the Hundred-Armed Sword Immortal Zhou Xun. The burial ground, established thirty years prior after the emperor expelled the Hu barbarians in the great Han-Hu war, was where the bodies of Han soldiers were interred. Those with kin were claimed, the rest buried here. It is said the emperor personally named it ‘Hero’s Mound,’ but that was thirty years ago. Now, locals call it the burial ground; the lonely, the destitute, those without kin are buried here, the officials digging shallow pits for them. The place was shrouded in chilling winds, bones scattered, the wails of ghosts echoing—tales of local spirits and monsters often originated here.

At the entrance, the three stopped. Two stone pillars stood, a battered wooden plaque hung between them inscribed with five bold characters: ‘Heroic Loyalists’ Tomb.’ Entering, a gust of cold wind sent chills through the trio. Glancing around, they saw spots of greenish phosphorescence drifting in the air. Suddenly, Li Sanshan tripped, fell to the ground, and found himself staring into the hollow eyes of a skull. From scalp to soles, he felt numb, involuntarily shrieked, leapt three yards high, and clung to Wang Hu like a vine, refusing to let go.

Wang Hu, nearly strangled, rolled his eyes and said, "Don’t be afraid, Li, look again." Li Sanshan peered cautiously; the skull had somehow ended up in the middle of the path, and what had tripped him was merely a leg bone that Zhou Qian was curiously examining.

"Dog, what are you doing?" Li Sanshan asked, trembling.

"I always thought human legs were much thicker than dog legs, but these bones aren't much bigger than a dog's!" Zhou Qian replied.

Li Sanshan shuddered, "Aren’t you afraid?"

"What’s there to fear? When I go to the market, slaughtering chickens and dogs is routine; corpses of dogs and sheep scattered everywhere. You’re not afraid then—why act like a girl now?"

"Dog corpses aren’t the same as human corpses," Li Sanshan retorted.

"I don’t see any difference," Zhou Qian shrugged.

"Enough banter; the elder Zhou must be waiting impatiently!" Wang Hu cut in.

They continued onward, weaving between haphazard graves, avoiding headstones. Another peculiarity: the inscriptions weren’t the usual ‘Father/Mother so-and-so’s tomb,’ but rather ‘Soldier so-and-so’s tomb,’ ‘Squad Leader so-and-so’s tomb.’ Wang Hu, bold, examined several hundred stones, even finding one for ‘Martial Lieutenant Qian.’ Realizing these were the graves of Han warriors who fought on the frontier, he was moved, bowed thrice before them, without explanation, leaving his companions puzzled.

Just then, Li Sanshan spotted a light in the northern cemetery. "Wang, Dog, look! Surely the Sword Immortal has lit a fire to guide us!"

Overjoyed, they rushed up a small hill. The fire came from burning paper offerings before a grave circled by white poplar trees. Disappointed, yet curious, they read the gravestone: ‘Tomb of my brother Linghu Xiong.’ The brushwork was vigorous, flowing, masterful, reminiscent of the Spring and Autumn style. Though they couldn’t decipher the meaning, they admired the script.

"A wasted trip—no Sword Immortal, just this dead Linghu Xiong," Li Sanshan muttered in disappointment.

"Don’t speak ill, Li—those buried here are heroes who drove out the Hu. Without them, we’d still be sheep under Hu rule; don’t disrespect them," Wang Hu admonished.

"Your little friend is right; Linghu Xiong was indeed a hero. Thirty years ago, he challenged seventeen Hu commanders, slew the tantric masters Basiba, Sogso Hada, his righteousness unmatched. But he ended up a lonely ghost, haha, haha."

Suddenly, two elderly men emerged from behind the poplars, one tall, one short, both exuding a sinister aura, clearly not benevolent. The speaker was the tall elder.

The three were startled, seeing the two elders' hostile faces, and grew wary. Li Sanshan, thinking these old men were merely playing at ghosts, and believing them frail, cursed, "Where did you two old ghosts come from, howling for no reason? Don’t you know you’ve scared your three grandfathers?"

"Impudent brat!" the short elder roared, and without warning, struck at Li Sanshan’s crown.

With a crack, the short club snapped; Wang Hu spat blood and was hurled three yards back, landing heavily, his face pale as gold, ribs broken. He had pulled a short club to shield Li Sanshan.

"Hmm?" the short elder seemed surprised. "To withstand my Soul-Seizing Claw, you must have learned some martial arts."

"Brother, I must say," the tall elder frowned, "times have changed; your temper should too!"

"They’re just three country lads," the short elder scoffed.

"I know who you are!" Wang Hu suddenly exclaimed. "You two are the last remnants of the previous dynasty, Hu collaborators—Yin-Yang Ghost Elders!"

"Heh, you’re well informed. We, the Two Immortal Ghost Elders, have hidden our identities for decades—yet the young still remember! All the more reason to leave no witnesses!" Tong Rang chuckled.

Li Sanshan, seeing Wang Hu—renowned locally as ‘Changzhou's Little Tyrant’—felled in a single blow, sighed inwardly, 'If I’d known, why be so mouthy? These old men, driven to hide their names, must be proud and sensitive—maybe a few flattery words could save us. And Wang, honestly, why blurt out their secret? Now they're forced to kill us! Such a sharp tongue!'

Tong Rang was about to strike; Li Sanshan gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and stood before Wang Hu. 'If I must die, let it be before my brothers. I am the second elder! In the Oath of the Peach Garden, who was the second? It was the righteous Guan Yu! I can't let Guan Yu steal all the glory—I, Li the Second, must shine too!’

As Tong Rang’s claw flashed, a dark shadow interposed before him. At what he thought was his last moment, Li Sanshan lamented, 'So much for my bravado—now loud-mouthed Zhang Fei gets all the credit!'